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walked in.“He found out that you have been cheating on me for twomonths. Heʼs very worried.” I looked at him, wishing that Ihad worn the black lace underwear I had bought two weeksago.“How do you feel?”“Iʼm not even sure how to answer that. I keep trying tofind a link between the way I act with you, and the knowledgethat you act that way with someone else. I donʼt eventhink a link exists—or itʼs invisible.” I wanted him to pullme close. Then I could close my eyes and sink deeper intomyself until words like Leah and infidelity deteriorated intothe walls of my self- constructed paradise. “I knew youwere still with her. I hear people talking about the two ofyou at school. Iʼm really the secret—the other girl. I knowthat you lie to me. That you never really have too muchhomework to spend time with me, and that your parentsnever really want to have family nights every Friday night.”“Itʼs not all lies though. Youʼre the type of person I couldfall in love with. Youʼre different than Leah. Iʼve told youthings Iʼve never told anyone.” I was not listening to him.“Youʼre not listening to me. If youʼve always known thisthen why are you still with me?”“Iʼm with you for every moment that you make me feelneeded. For the half an hour when we lie in bed breathinghard and hugging. When you tell me I have soft skin. Ibelieve at that moment, you really need me, even if itʼs onlyto help fulfill some stupid sexual craving.”“Itʼs more than that.”“I donʼt care.” Even as I yelled it I knew that it wasnʼttrue. I had lied again, creating a lie more realistic than anyother one he had constructed; it looked like the perfectapples I used to pick with Lucy around Halloween time.I used to eat at least four of the apples that were coloredgreen and sprayed pink. I always felt sick on the bumpydrive home.“You do care. Please tell me you care.” He was cryingand I was mad at him for that. But I crawled over to him. Iwas wearing oversized gray sweat pants and an old cottont-shirt. I liked giving hugs when I had pajamas on—so Igave him one. I touched each one of his vertebrae with myfingers, playing a sad love song on his back. I imagined thatmy dad probably heard that same song downstairs. Eachbump I pressed on Kyleʼs back, pricking some raw area inmy dadʼs heart. I knew that the love song was killing him,and I kept playing.I let Kyle kiss my cheek, and then my ear. I let Kyle kissmy mouth, and then take off my shirt.Coconut ice cream is perfect for when you help someonecheat on his girlfriend. At first all you can taste is sugar andyou are happy that there is nothing else to distract you fromrealizing your sweet desire. But as you become accustomedto that, a foreign taste slowly moves its way along youtongue. You ask yourself what it is and you donʼt answer fora while. When you are finished, and the spoon and cup liein the trash can next to banana peels and used tissues, youanswer yourself: it tastes like cheap perfume and tanningbeds—and even after knowing this, you are still not upsetyou ate it.34 Spring 2008Go Ahead, Slip Me onEric GorenfloIf I could be a shoe--any shoe whatsoever--I would be aslipper. Sneakers? Stilletos? Boots? Pshht, no way. Cinderella hadit right--slippers are where itʼs at.As a pair of slippers, you get to partake in all the most relaxedsettings. Lounging in front of the telly before bedtime? Theslippers are there. Midnight trip to the open-late drive through?Check. Quick dash to grab the morning paper in the nude? Certainly.On top of this, slippers are a kind of footwear that reallyfit emotionally—they know how to be intimate. No socks? Noproblem. From heel to toe, slippers can handle bare skin, baby.Plus, a good padded slipper really knows how to keep your “sole”feeling warm and fuzzy. And of course, the wearer will never get“cold feet” either.In the world of shoes, itʼs obvious who has the high ground.Slippers offer the necessary emotional support while also boastinga most-relaxed vibe. If I could be a shoe, I wouldnʼt chooseany other pair of kicks.The Villains of LazinessMegan SandbergMelissa GollidayMy heavy eyes drop shut over my (insert most annoyingclass of the day with the most homework here) book. The pagesrun together, and I canʼt tell the difference between integral andla idioma. Scattering my books to my bedside, I flop onto mycomfortable pillows. No more homework until the morning.Iʼm busy. And like any other high school senior, I haveno time to fit every rehearsal, evening shift, and paper into oneafternoon sitting. Late nights arenʼt uncommon. But when I amfree, the inevitable “laziness” sneaks up on me. Tapping me onthe shoulder, it invites me into its comfortable grotto that is acouch/bed, remote, and TV. I slouch until dinner and ignore mybooks; the evil-doers continue to coax me.Starting my homework isnʼt the problem; itʼs my lack ofmotivation to finish that trips me up. Iʼve realized the only wayto stay afloat is to use any free time I have to stay caught up. Mymom canʼt be around to light a fire under me anymore. I have totake hold of the lighter fluid.